The House of Crows

spent the night crooning over a tankard of ale.
    Athelstan, his heart heavy, turned a corner. He could see the flicker of torchlight and hear the shouts and his anxiety grew. Something was wrong. He hurried on, trying hard to control the beating in his heart, but the scene in front of St Erconwald’s stopped him full in his tracks. The church doors were closed, but a large crowd of his parishioners was assembled on the steps, torches in hand, listening to a speech from Watkin the dung-collector.
    ‘Oh, no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘He’s gone and armed himself!’
    Watkin was striding backwards and forwards, a small metal cooking-pot on his head, a battered leather sallet round his shoulders, a rusty sword poked into the belt which held in his bulging belly. On either side stood his two lieutenants: Pike the ditcher holding a spear. He also had a cooking-pot on his head whilst, on the other side, Ranulf the rat-catcher had armed himself with a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.
    ‘We must arm ourselves,’ Watkin repeated, jabbing the air with his stubby fingers and beaming at the chorus of approval. ‘If Father Athelstan does not come back.’ His voice dropped. ‘And who knows if he will, eh? For all we know the demon could have taken him.’
    A roar of disapproval greeted his words.
    ‘We must hunt for the demon.’
    Again there was a roar of agreement. Athelstan noticed with a sinking heart how Tab the tinker had taken the statue of St Erconwald from its plinth inside the church, whilst Huddle the painter grasped the processional cross as if it was a spear. ‘Benedicta! Benedicta!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘Where are you?’ He searched the crowd and glimpsed the widow at the far back. She seemed to sense his presence, turned and looked straight at him. Athelstan moved out of the shadows. ‘Watkin!’ he shouted.
    The dung-collector jumped in surprise. ‘It’s Father!’ he yelled. ‘The demon has released him!’
    Athelstan strode across, shouldering his way through the crowd, ignoring the pats and cries of good wishes. He stared up into the dung-collector’s fat, bulbous face.
    ‘Watkin, Watkin,’ he whispered. ‘In God’s name what are you doing?’
    ‘We have seen the demon,’ Pike came forward. ‘Just before dusk, Father, a black shape in the cemetery.’
    ‘Have you been drinking?’ Athelstan accused.
    Pike looked stricken. ‘Father, I swear, by the cross!’
    ‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Athelstan whispered hoarsely. ‘I have come from Newgate where they have just hanged your friend the Fox.’
    Pike’s jaw sank.
    ‘It’s really my fault, Father.’ Ranulf edged nervously forward. ‘Early in the day I was in that house in Stinking Alley. You know, the one the merchant wants to buy. I saw the demon there, it was at the top of the stairs.’
    ‘And did you go back and search?’
    ‘Oh yes, Father, we did: it was gone but the stench was terrible.’
    ‘And who saw it tonight?’
    ‘I did.’ Cecily the courtesan came up to the steps, hips swaying, her face as innocent as an angel’s. ‘Father, you told me to come back and help, so I did.’
    ‘And what were you doing in the cemetery?’ Athelstan asked, glancing quickly at Pike the ditcher.
    ‘Now, Father, don’t be like that. I was all by myself: there was some mouldering fruit left upon a grave so I collected that. It was very quiet.’ She babbled on. ‘Then I heard a sound. Cross my heart, Father.’ She blessed herself. ‘I saw the shape, down near the wall, prowling amongst the trees.’
    ‘And what do you all intend to do now?’
    Watkin pointed to the statue of St Erconwald and the cross that Huddle still grasped. ‘We are going into the cemetery, Father, to hunt the demon!’
    Athelstan turned and stretched his hands out above his parishioners. ‘Brothers, sisters,’ he called. ‘What stupidity is this?’
    ‘We want to hunt the demon!’ Hig the pigman shouted. ‘It’s only a matter of time, Father, before he attacks someone else. Who knows, this time he might take them off to hell?’ Hig lowered his voice and stared around. ‘Perhaps he’s hunting Pike?’
    ‘Don’t you say anything about my husband!’ the ditcher’s wife shouted back. ‘You can talk, Hig! I saw you this morning outside the Piebald!’
    ‘What do you mean?’ the pigman called back.
    ‘Well, that wasn’t your daughter!’
    A vicious row would have ensued, but Athelstan clapped his hands for silence. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he